Thine the Key to My Heart
by AranellAeariel
Summary: (Based on both the movie and the TV show) - Lydia is grown, married, and still utterly alone. It has been six years since she's seen her ghoulish companion, and both have decided that the separation ends tonight.
1. Prologue

_Author's note: I do not own Beetlejuice or any of the recognizable characters. All credits and rights to original and legal owners. Please review, favorite, and follow, as it means EVERYTHING to me!_

Prologue, In These Years, In This Heart

"Happy birthday, Lydia dear," Arthur smiled as he laid a gentle peck against the soft skin of her pallid cheek. She smiled meekly, fatigued by the mere idea of growing any older.

"Thank you, Arthur." She responded, her voice dry and void of any real emotions. She had just turned 26, according to the codes of the earth. The world had gone one full trip around the bright star, and she had seen another year whither away like petals on a dying rose.

It wasn't that Arthur made her unhappy on this day, no, nor that he did not bring her any form of joy. It was that there was a vastly disconsolate and morose fraction of her heart that could not be filled. It was a locked piece, and the key had long since been lost in the tangled claws of her desires and sadness.

However, there was a skeleton key. Somewhere, past the great known and unknown alike, past the doors of both life and death, and far beyond the reaches of space, was a man.

He was by no means a gorgeous being, nothing glamorous about the way he appeared, and by no ones standards was he desirable. He was crude, vicious, vile, coldhearted, impertinent, bawdy, and in all ways brash. He was caked in years of filth and dross, and he delighted in the feeling of an animated roach slithering across his anemic flesh. The black and white stripes of his threadbare and hoary trousers scarcely covered his spindly ankles and lanky calves. His shape was nothing to behold, he was rotund around the area of his waist, a pale, somewhat fuzzy stomach, and he was, as a whole, rather dumpy. His flamboyantly colored violet shirt and tastefully striped waistcoat and tie did nothing to hide the gut he himself had no shame for.

Despite that, he had led Lydia through the greatest years of her life. He had grabbed her hand and whisked her away to a place, to a time, to a life she had never before fathomed. He risked her life, and his eternal afterlife, to cavort around the Neitherworld like a king amongst men, with her at his side, and adventures to be braved laid plain before them.

His name was Betelgeuse, and Lydia had let him consume her soul, let him take over any sliver of reason that she possessed. And she loved him.


	2. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I don't own Beetlejuice or any of its characters. Off to a good start! This is an older piece I'm just now publishing, so the style is a little different. Please continue to follow, favourite, and review! Thanks so much!_

Chapter 1, The Sun Rises in the Neitherworld

He didn't know, nor did he want to know, how long it had been since he had seen, or even heard the voice of Lydia Deetz Shuckler. It had been before her wedding, he knew, but he was still uncertain as to how many years had shed since then.

He remembered seeing her the night before the wedding, her lustrous raven hair swept into a clinched braid at the back of her head, slung carelessly over her shoulder and constantly under the attack of her tapered fingers as she paced back and forth in front of the mirror.

"_Beej, what if I'm not ready for this? What if HE'S not ready for this? What if one of us faints up there, or what if my dress catches on a cand-" she had begun to worry aloud when Betelgeuse held up a hand to silence her troubles. Although he had said nothing, the knot that had formed in the pit of her stomach had loosened into a free flurry of butterflies. _

"_Babes. Listen to me. You and…. whats-his-face are gonna get hitched tomorrow. Ya hear? And even though it kills me… again," his face was morose, and he felt no need to pitch to her a comedic gag, "you're gonna walk down that isle and be the most beautiful damn woman in the world. You'll be fine Lyds. You always have been, haven't ya?" _

_When the sun had risen the next morning, she was wide awake, chocolate eyes grappling blindly, as if trying to see the answer through the ceiling itself. And by the moment the moon had hiked into the inky blackness of a star smattered night, she had said her vows and was bound to another man, leaving Betelgeuse to lay in the rest of his eternity with a set uncertainty and loss that could never be mended. _

Betelgeuse stumbled out of the restricting coffin he had slept in, running a quivering hand through the green-blonde mass of hair. He knew he looked like a certain wreck, and at this moment, he had no care. There was no woman he was looking to impress, none that mattered, and he had no drive, no need, no will to leave the roadhouse.

He had barricaded himself inside; he had shut the doors as a final sign of his resignation into emptiness. He drank himself into a constant stupor, cursing and howling at the tenants of the roadhouse who cowered back into their rooms as he stumbled through. Jacques and Ginger had discussed in hushed whispers the consequences of Betelgeuse's habit, but they could find no way to take the alcohol from him. He had lost all that mattered to him; Lydia.

He was appalled to discover that the face of the woman he loved most had faded, blended, bled into those of the hundreds of other women he had known in his life. He racked his brain, he cursed himself as he pounded his fists to his head, but still, could not remember the luster of Lydia's endlessly glimmering eyes, or the gentle freckles that danced across her skin, so barely visible, but so charmingly existent.

_To hell with it!_ He thought bitterly. He had lost her already, now it was time for the rest of him to accept it. He had lost her to the timid, weak man with an eye for the bizarre. He was the opposite of Betelgeuse himself, but he was a living, breathing man, and he would not oppress Lydia's life. The choice was so clear that it was almost a relief when Betelgeuse had discovered the decision.

His hands were trembling as he parted the closed cabinet doors. He groped around until his hands came in contact with the deliciously smooth neck of a bottle of an amber drink. He ripped it from the shadowy regions of the cupboard, cracking the stopper as he threw it to the ground. He tipped the crystal vassal to his lips, drinking deeply like a man stranded. He parted from the drink, dragging the back of his wintry hand across his fractured lips.

Jacques, who had been standing in the living-dead room like a sentry, spoke up, a quiver in his usually amiable voice. "Look, Betelgeuse. The sun is just rising," he smiled thinly at his companion, hoping with just a small piece of himself that the man would simply smile back and set down the bottle.

"So it is," he mumbled, squinting at the glowing orb out the only window that had yet to be blockaded by thick black curtains.

And without him knowing, he and Lydia had been looking at the same sun at that very same moment.


	3. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I do not own Beetlejuice or any of the recognizable characters. All credits and rights to original and legal owners. Please review, favorite, and follow, as it means EVERYTHING to me!_

Chapter 2, A Thousand Doors and One Single Key

"Lydia, dear, we're going to be late! Please, hurry up!" Arthur called demurely. Although his concern for tardiness dogged him extensively, he was frightened more of even a single brawl arising from his timid shouts.

"I know Arthur, I'm coming." She huffed, head hung as she snapped a silver earring into place on her ear. The spiders hung low, dancing across her shoulders tenderly, kissing the shimmering fabric of her dress as they spilled from her ears.

"Lydia, dear, you look stunning…" Arthur vocalized, overtaken by pure awe. Her slender waist was embraced by a cascading onyx dress that pooled at her feet gently like a splotch of ink on snowy white parchment. A pair of satiny, ivory bands framed her shoulders prettily, and her pleasant bust was cradled by a coal whisper of fabric that tumbled down to the belt that met her hips flatteringly. Her ruby smile was mischievous, and her umber eyes smoldered beneath luxuriant black lashes.

"Thank you, Arthur," her eyes bled the coyness she displayed on her blood red lips. "Now. We have somewhere to be, now don't we?" She cradled a small clutch against her side with a careful grasp.

"Of course." His smile was docile as he offered her his arm to grasp as they exited the house, feeling like a king and queen of a quivering world, unprepared for their grace.

Since the day Lydia had been married, her own private world was a flurry, a frenzy of hope and overwhelming despair alike, darkness and light, evil and pure, unrelenting goodness. Her essence was at war, her whole being was waging a battle against the dual half. Although she was not known to be a milquetoast person, she felt as if she had become introverted and pliable, more so than she had ever been.

As she slid into the sleek car with Arthur beside her, she could not suppress the desire to call upon the one person who would give her life that simple spark of life she had been craving since the very first day he left.

The event itself was a tireless charade. The gallery was lovely, drenched in a myriad of tastefully unique pictures, and equally unique photographers. She shook hands with those who mattered, smiled politely at all the appropriate intervals, and laughed with a golden echo at all the perfect moments. To a stranger, it would appear that Lydia Shuckler was living the life she had always dreamed of, but deep inside, her whole spirit was yearning for the life she had abandoned the moment she allowed Arthur into her life.

"Did you see that lovely photo that Jean Cladhaire took? The lighting was superb" Arthur crowned, praising the woman who was so commonly apprehensive, save for her photography. She nodded, although she would not bring herself to admit to her husband that she was uninterested with the topic of choice. On another day, she might agree with him, concede that indeed, Jean's photographs were superior in the choice of lighting, and the style of contrasting shadows and natural light were her signature, but she had no motivation to. Not tonight, not this day. Her thoughts meandered about the recesses of her brain, at odd moments, bringing old retrospections back to the surface of her conscious mind. When was the last time she had thought about the night prior to her wedding? She could scarcely remember the face that pacified the whirlwind of emotions that savaged her the night before she said her vows. She knew it was… Betelgeuse, but his face could not be recalled whatsoever.

Her whole life had been a series of doors, thousands and thousands of doors, and thousands and thousands of keys to match. But there was one key, the skeleton key, that had opened all of them for her, granted her purchase of this unending corridor of decisions. However badly she would want to re-open these doors, to revisit and reminisce on the adventures in days since passed, she could not open them, could not manage to pry them open without the key. And the key, the _only_ key, was lost.


	4. Chapter 3

_Author's note: I do not own Beetlejuice or any of the recognizable characters. All credits and rights to original and legal owners. Please review, favorite, and follow, as it means EVERYTHING to me! Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to keep this up, I love hearing all the kind words. _

Chapter 3, It Ends Tonight

Six years. Six silent, damnable years spent wallowing in self-pity and alcohol. Countless nights spent drowning his woes in bottle after bottle, can after can, case after case of more drinks than even he himself knew what to do with. He could recall now, recall every day since the day she had been given to another man in another world. Tonight was an especially harrowing night for him. Six years ago, six long, curbed years without a single word from Lydia, not a single visit, not a single beckoning, not even a glimpse at the portal to his world from hers. She had faded away, she was the night before the wedding, and when daylight stole the darkness away, Arthur stole Lydia from him. Day relented, however, unlike Arthur. He never got her back, staring at the Neitherworld night with worn, dismal eyes, praying that when he awoke, it would be the way it was, with Lydia still in the process of blossoming into a true woman.

In the corners of his mind, he speculated that Arthur, tedious, monotonous, stodgy, Arthur, would hold fast to Lydia, professing love and swearing it to her in infinite ways, more ways than he could ever even fathom. His heart was a maelstrom, his perceptions drudging through a horrendous and relentless attack. What then could he do? Lydia had managed to glissade through his fingers, like sand dragged back by the unending tide, and before he knew it, she was gone.

Even the deepest, most sanctified recesses of his mind were consumed by the image of Lydia enthralled by the affection showered unto him by her husband, reclining in his arms, breathing languid as she drifted off to sleep in his embrace.

"What a prick." He muttered, taking a long, thoughtful swig from the bottle he clenched rigidly in his grimy hand.

Straggling into the kitchen, he found this journey to be aimless, as he needed nothing. The bottle of lager in his grasp was still at a generous amount, and he had no need to divulge in food. Ginger had found herself sedentary in the corner of the kitchen, setting down a cup as her roommate had padded into the room.

"Hello, Betelgeuse. What are you doin' in here?" Her voice was a soaring, pleasant clarion trill, which contrasted with the abrasive, low rumble of his own.

"Nothin'. Lookin' for somethin' to eat." He murmured, his lie as undeniable as a truth, and he browsed the cabinets blindly.

"Betelgeuse, you haven't eaten in six years." Ginger countered shyly. Her voice was flat, although held true, more so than he had hoped. As much as he despised the petite, pink arachnid, he knew she was the only one aside from Lydia who could decipher his lies against his truth.

"It's Lydia's anniversary, isn't it." She whispered in acute realization. It had not occurred to her until now how trying this annual even was to him.

"Six damn years." He seethed, casting his glance back down at the glass bottle still within his grasp.

"Betelgeuse, when was the last time you tried to visit her?" She instituted gently. This was a challenge she knew he had considered before, but she also was fully aware that he had never done it successfully.

"Damn it, Ginger. Why would I visit her on her anniversary? She's prob'ly all wrapped up in Arnold or whatever the hell his name was." He asserted dolefully.

"Arthur." Ginger corrected monotonously. "And anyway, believe it or not, you were her friend. It might be nice to see you, even six years later." She disclosed dryly, turning to patter away.

"But no matter what, Betelgeuse, all this sulking, this drinking, this whining and horrendous self pity? It ends tonight." She affirmed, exiting the room.

"It ends tonight…" He reiterated, his echo hanging limply in the air of the now abandoned kitchen.


	5. Chapter 4

_Author's note: I do not own Beetlejuice or any of the recognizable characters. All credits and rights to original and legal owners. Please review, favorite, and follow, as it means EVERYTHING to me! I'll be uploading several chapters tonight, and a very warm thanks to everyone who encouraged this story onwards. _

Chapter 4, Breaking the Silence

This anniversary was nothing special to Lydia. Another charade, another façade, and another night pretending she was so wholeheartedly in love with the blase man she had taken as her husband. She could not say she didn't love him, for she did with a fair percentage of her heart, but the rest of her remained shallowly pretending she cared far more than she could confess that did.

"Happy anniversary, Lydia, my love." Arthur's voice was raucous, and his inebriated tone suggested he had done far more celebrating than she had. His trembling hands managed to transfer a pristinely wrapped box to hers, and the flaky smile upon his lips proposed that this present was one he himself would enjoy lavishing someone with, but not necessarily something that Lydia would enjoy. She opened the box, taking advantage of her quick, tapered fingers to peel back the wrapper without ripping it.

Inside perched a fresh, glossy, digital camera. Based on the sleek, intuitive design and shape, she knew this would leave a fair dent in Arthur's wallet. Smiling civilly, she glanced back at him, who continued to smile dopily.

"Thank you Arthur, it's lovely." She entreated sweetly. She felt embittered by her own lie, but she knew this was not something she had needed. She was still very much in love with the Polaroid camera she had received as a cold bribe from Delia eleven years ago when she had been informed they were to be moving into a small town in Winter River, Connecticut. It was the camera that had allowed her to first encounter the Maitlands, her dear friends Adam and Barbara, and eventually, her closest friend she had ever known, Betelgeuse.

She felt the griping squall of anguish as she thought of the old Poltergeist who had been the zenith of her teenage years, and she despaired to think of her young life without his ridiculous antics.

She had missed him before, and had often times found her lips to form his name, but never dared beseech the specter. This night, however, this night that most couples revered and worshiped, viewing it as the most perfect of opportunities to rekindle the flame of their marriage, was often the night she missed him most. She could nearly hear him taunt such a superfluous celebration such as this, badgering her on how a night such as this was simply an excuse for frivolous gifts and sex. She would not and could not disagree, but there was something else his description was missing. It was a time of loneliness, to reflect on all the flaws and imperfections of a marriage that six years ago would have seemed ideal.

Lydia took a moment to gander back at her husband, who was now sprawled across the dining room table, dragged deep into his stupor. She let out an exasperated sigh as she ushered him to sit up at least straight enough that his face was not rooted in the meal she had thrown together only an hour before.

"Damn you, Arthur." Her whispered cry of despair was uncharacteristic of her reclusive display of emotions. For once in her life, she loathed the man she loved more often than not. Her sheer hatred for him and his closet alcoholism had pushed her to feel nothing but pure acrimony for this man. As she withdrew from the room, she felt the first tears descend from her reddening eyes. She did little to fight them this time, though she would usually obliterate them with the side of her thumb dragged roughly across the expanse of her eye.

Her feet carried her up the narrow staircase, the ones she had seen Otho tumble down by the workings of Betelgeuse so many years ago, the ones that had held her as she screeched and hollered at Delia in the most vile of rows, the ones that had seated her the night she felt her first wave of re-evaluation towards the subject of her imminent marriage. She stood atop the landing like Juliet upon her balcony, this time, however, praying that her gentle lover would not be standing below.

The door to her room thudded shut before she even conceived the endeavor to. Her bed arrested her as she flung herself upon it with no real care. She craned her neck from her spot on the plush monstrosity of pillows and down to see the oblong mirror that had been in her possession since she was a young girl. The feeling that overcame her was something miraculously inexplicable. It was a sudden brash boldness that grasped her from her very core, a desire to be rebel against all that her heart had warned her of and sworn off nearly six years ago.

The same delicate, alabaster feet that had given her purchase as she thundered up the staircase now transported her to stand before the reflective surface of the aged mirror.

The name of her lost companion was so deliciously close to being freed from her throat, she could almost taste his name on her lips. She was, at last, collapsing the walls she had created, breaking the silence that had hung between them for far too long.

_Betelgeuse._

_Betelgeuse._

_Betelgeuse. _


End file.
